Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Wanting
A mindless job that makes you want to cry at every moment of being within the building that holds the ignorance. Wanting of a point in life other than that of subtle existance. Wanting that of a life. I have no choice but to work for money, doing these tasks that do not intrest me and take my life further and further to the edge of pointlessness. A knife floats on the edge of the cliff that I walk toward. With only a leap I could grasp this metal and end my agony. But with only a leap I would end this creation that has become who I am. This view of who we are is so fragile that it can change at any moment; with a knife we can cut away who we are and make it who we were, and create who we want to be, making that who I am . However, I am lost in the mixture of paints that has masked the way that I must become. There is nothing more for me in what I was. The holding on to everything and yet grabbing nothing. I leap forth with in the same moment I regret it emiditly knowing that while falling through the air I have only two choices. One, land with a mangled version of who I jumped from. Two, cut away from myself and extend into what I am wanting. The risks at hand I have expeted, I have wanted, I would not have stepped from the solidness that is the cliff if I was not wanting. I am wanting. I am having. We can want and it can be a sin. But if we shall break from the mear wanting for superficial reason and enter into the realm of having for the benifit of living we are forgiven. I am wanting. I am having. I am forgiven. Lucifer hugs me, Adam and Eve are making love behind me. I have cut away my former self and am coming into my new skin. I see more and feel more, yet I hold back more as well. I am wanting... of a job, of a point, of a life. I am having...of a job, of a point, of a life. I am forgiven...of a job, of a point, of a life.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Paper Inked
These words are injected
Into my veins. syringes
Filled with insight. needles
Dripping with imagination,
Into a puddle of colour.
Skewed by the light,
And being transformed
Into a rainbow of creation.
All in the flow of blood,
Pumped by the heart,
Controlled by the Brain.
Monday, November 19, 2007
A Modern Family
An owner, a mother, a person in control, a person that created a life, a person that took away a breath. A love sparked the act that lead to a nine month fertilization of the most miraculous crop of the brightest of colours. The rain blisters the window pains of the house that was used as the catalyst for the delivery. As she grasps the door's unlocking device she becomes wrist deep in water. The wooden slab that separates the wickedness of the world from the modern necessities that were riddled inside, had its pores opened and allowed the torrents to attack the inner purity. The slab blown down the mother walks with not but rain dripping from her eyes and a basket in her hands. A life dangles within ten digits. A bus that slides to its stops allows for the pilgrimage to proceed unto St. Peter greeting her with open arms; a meditated handling. A dove flies across a moon lit sky that bursts from beneath the black sheets that are pulled loosely across the heavens. A shadow has no place on the rippling pavement.
The dove flies to a branch not but blocks from the basket that sways in a soft ten. The shade that holds all the colours that an eye and mind can envision, floats down from its spot as the dove casts its back on the dreams of life. The feather turns as black as a glistening winters day as the sun reflects from each icy cluster that codes the ground, that a blind man can see. This feather that ways 8 pounds 2 ounces, wakes a man, a father, a homeless person, a deserter that lies on a bench beneath a comforter of the previous events printed daily. Our society loves to recycle. This man sees more awake, his unconscious denies him of what inspires each action that is played on the pathways of life. The wooden bench bleeds with the blood that he has spilled. He let go of his place. He neglected to become what he had became. He allowed himself to do the deed. But yet a back was turned, a heart was broken, another weakened, one lost forever. This man becomes chained to the bench to feel the blood which he created, and allowed to be wasted. This is the closest he has come to being a father. With years streaming from his face, he still feels no remorse. In horror, he still can not understand his misdeeds. This is what has come to be, this is what had no chance from the start. Abandonment created loneliness, which created fear and lead to the feeling that she can not succeed. That she was not ready. The black feather does not absorb any red even though it sinks in it.
An infant, a child, it is merely a heart in a flesh casing. The basket that it lies in becomes a pool that fills further with each drop that seeps from the sky above. The doors at which it cries opened quickly to the deathly cries that had came from the outside. With a single motion the face of God chuckles and does not feel remorse. These doors of acceptance slam shut in the face of purity. A life this new deserves to be given a swimming lesson before being left to float. No laughter is held within it's lungs, only gurgled gasps of helplessness escape from a fresh mouth that was delivered to unwanted hands. The feet which carried the weight of two stepped from a bus, then unloaded it's unwanted cargo to the gates of rejection. This place of help leaks from the roof, water rots the corner posts that let stand the magnificent institution of falsehood that grins with corruption. The building that has angels on its peaks and lava flowing in it's sewers collapses onto a pool that holds a swimmer before his time. Lessons scheduled for one day too late.
The dove flies to a branch not but blocks from the basket that sways in a soft ten. The shade that holds all the colours that an eye and mind can envision, floats down from its spot as the dove casts its back on the dreams of life. The feather turns as black as a glistening winters day as the sun reflects from each icy cluster that codes the ground, that a blind man can see. This feather that ways 8 pounds 2 ounces, wakes a man, a father, a homeless person, a deserter that lies on a bench beneath a comforter of the previous events printed daily. Our society loves to recycle. This man sees more awake, his unconscious denies him of what inspires each action that is played on the pathways of life. The wooden bench bleeds with the blood that he has spilled. He let go of his place. He neglected to become what he had became. He allowed himself to do the deed. But yet a back was turned, a heart was broken, another weakened, one lost forever. This man becomes chained to the bench to feel the blood which he created, and allowed to be wasted. This is the closest he has come to being a father. With years streaming from his face, he still feels no remorse. In horror, he still can not understand his misdeeds. This is what has come to be, this is what had no chance from the start. Abandonment created loneliness, which created fear and lead to the feeling that she can not succeed. That she was not ready. The black feather does not absorb any red even though it sinks in it.
An infant, a child, it is merely a heart in a flesh casing. The basket that it lies in becomes a pool that fills further with each drop that seeps from the sky above. The doors at which it cries opened quickly to the deathly cries that had came from the outside. With a single motion the face of God chuckles and does not feel remorse. These doors of acceptance slam shut in the face of purity. A life this new deserves to be given a swimming lesson before being left to float. No laughter is held within it's lungs, only gurgled gasps of helplessness escape from a fresh mouth that was delivered to unwanted hands. The feet which carried the weight of two stepped from a bus, then unloaded it's unwanted cargo to the gates of rejection. This place of help leaks from the roof, water rots the corner posts that let stand the magnificent institution of falsehood that grins with corruption. The building that has angels on its peaks and lava flowing in it's sewers collapses onto a pool that holds a swimmer before his time. Lessons scheduled for one day too late.
For you to Decide
In the end what is important? Are we suppose to
believe in what can not be proven?
Are we to be so optimistic
that we in fact are unable to see the truth?
Are we becoming searchers for the fake?
We walk blindly on this Globe. Do not falter for you
shall be taken by the hand of those who pray on minds.
Ended
Pain; what can break a heart will rebuild it with tissues that will be scarred. I see my friends, the majority of them have a story of internal bleeding that is slowly clotting. We all at some point let down the walls which we defend with machine guns and rocket launchers. Every army runs out of ammunition eventually. This point hurts us the most. We can not defend an area that no longer has boundaries.
I can recall from my mind one summer a friend held close to his heart a hand that was not his. To be with him for each pump of blood. Nights spent swimming that always ended with their backs pressed to the pine docks, their eyes spread wide and their minds spread even wider to try and absorb all of the clear nights sky shine. Their conversation never ending, questions hardly ever becoming answered.
"How can the blackness be so great?"
"What do you mean?"
"How can such a dark colour holding such bad and dreadful meaning cover such a great amount of our visual world?"
"Is darkness bad? Do you really fear what is so clear and peaceful?"
"To us it is peaceful and clears our mind only because we are in it together, what is thought of as hell would seem as clear and perfect as this if we lied in the flames together as we do here."
There thoughts are interrupted only for the seconds it takes to look into their apposing eyes and they know they love each other. Why can not everything be as certain?
"Well the blackness brings out the goodness in the stars."
"Maybe you're right. Do you ever wounder if there is more to space then we can see or prove?"
"I guess so, but is God not beyond this?"
"God... to some people, yes God is beyond this. Look at it this way." He roles over to look into her eyes, to hold her closer. The look that he has on his face makes her want to blush and look away but she can not, she is in a trance, the intensity scares some. "Start from beneath us, imagine the centre of the earth as we break through each layer there are different elements. Slowly we hit the surface of the earth where then the dirt, the solid part of the giant rock ends slowly then there is the water then this dock which we lie on. Travelling outwards there is us, our bodies lying here, we also have and end. We are born, live a period of time or distance one could say. then we are over; we end. Go from our bodies towards the stars which hold the beauty of your eyes." She smiles at this and squeezes his shoulder. She is still on her back and he is on his side. He is drawn into her heart by those eyes. "The sky that we know as blue ends, the Atmosphere that surrounds earth, gravity, oxygen, ozone layer, it all ends. But yet they say the universe has no end.
"What do you mean? That there is something beyond the blackness?"
"Time ends, life ends, our world ends, the sun will end. The universe must end as well."
"A lot of what you are saying is timed, a man made thing."
"Time, distance too, both, yes man made; but you can not ignore how things end."
"Okay fine, but is that not heaven?"
"That's where I am unsure. Everything comes from something. For something to be it must have always been. So to me, there is something beyond the stars, what it is we wont know until we search harder. Personally, God or Heaven, seems much too easy. Something created us and this, all this around us. Where did God come from? To me he still could not come from nothing. Even the creator should have a creator."
The night fades away from my memory.
It has ended...my memory has ended...the pain has ended...
I can recall from my mind one summer a friend held close to his heart a hand that was not his. To be with him for each pump of blood. Nights spent swimming that always ended with their backs pressed to the pine docks, their eyes spread wide and their minds spread even wider to try and absorb all of the clear nights sky shine. Their conversation never ending, questions hardly ever becoming answered.
"How can the blackness be so great?"
"What do you mean?"
"How can such a dark colour holding such bad and dreadful meaning cover such a great amount of our visual world?"
"Is darkness bad? Do you really fear what is so clear and peaceful?"
"To us it is peaceful and clears our mind only because we are in it together, what is thought of as hell would seem as clear and perfect as this if we lied in the flames together as we do here."
There thoughts are interrupted only for the seconds it takes to look into their apposing eyes and they know they love each other. Why can not everything be as certain?
"Well the blackness brings out the goodness in the stars."
"Maybe you're right. Do you ever wounder if there is more to space then we can see or prove?"
"I guess so, but is God not beyond this?"
"God... to some people, yes God is beyond this. Look at it this way." He roles over to look into her eyes, to hold her closer. The look that he has on his face makes her want to blush and look away but she can not, she is in a trance, the intensity scares some. "Start from beneath us, imagine the centre of the earth as we break through each layer there are different elements. Slowly we hit the surface of the earth where then the dirt, the solid part of the giant rock ends slowly then there is the water then this dock which we lie on. Travelling outwards there is us, our bodies lying here, we also have and end. We are born, live a period of time or distance one could say. then we are over; we end. Go from our bodies towards the stars which hold the beauty of your eyes." She smiles at this and squeezes his shoulder. She is still on her back and he is on his side. He is drawn into her heart by those eyes. "The sky that we know as blue ends, the Atmosphere that surrounds earth, gravity, oxygen, ozone layer, it all ends. But yet they say the universe has no end.
"What do you mean? That there is something beyond the blackness?"
"Time ends, life ends, our world ends, the sun will end. The universe must end as well."
"A lot of what you are saying is timed, a man made thing."
"Time, distance too, both, yes man made; but you can not ignore how things end."
"Okay fine, but is that not heaven?"
"That's where I am unsure. Everything comes from something. For something to be it must have always been. So to me, there is something beyond the stars, what it is we wont know until we search harder. Personally, God or Heaven, seems much too easy. Something created us and this, all this around us. Where did God come from? To me he still could not come from nothing. Even the creator should have a creator."
The night fades away from my memory.
It has ended...my memory has ended...the pain has ended...
Sunday, November 18, 2007
blindeD
It is darkening outside much earlier then before. The world is on a shift. I fear that we walk through life not taking in the important things.
My mind is playing tricks on me. I am wanting to believe in our heart and how some people claim it has feelings. I find myself thinking this every once in awhile. It proves to be much easier to say that my heart is broken then trying to understand what part of my brain triggers my stomach to fall and my heart to rip.
Unfortunately I have cast myself into this darkness that nature is shadowing the world in. I can only hope that as nature brings light back for each person and living thing I shall have a golden candle re-lit in my mind so that my eyes may be given the gift of vision once more.
Clarity
There is a confusion of words strung together to create what is labeled a sentence; an idea. I bag the speaker to clarify what it is that they claim to have said. It is one thing to have our words and actions mix to create a contradiction; this is due to the fact that from ones body language we can evaluate the truth behind the words vocalized. However, when ones words become contradictory and the visual of the body is taken from the listeners eyes then a problem is truly created. For when we say two things and claim these two separate things to be true of the subject of ones view on an object, this is merely impossible. Two things alive or dead, spoken or not, thought or yet to be thought can not occupy the same space. Two things can not be one. Therefore I bag the speaker to evaluate what it is you have thought and put forth into conversation. Make sure your thoughts do not collide into an explosion of multiple meanings that will burn the speaker as well as the listener.
Lost Carnival
Our minds are still young and shapable. We lack many things. We do not have the insight that our elders hold.
I sit here and listen to those around me. Noticing that we are shy, quiet. Assuming we are wrong before we even let out a voice. The way we think is lacking. We are dreamers, no; we are loosing our ability to dream. When these people around me close their eyes their minds do not light up into a carnival of ideas. When they sleep no longer do paths appear to wisp them away on journeys of things to come. They must remember or our generation is lost forever. We are not children, yet we are not adults; we are not one of the two.
I sit here and listen to those around me. Noticing that we are shy, quiet. Assuming we are wrong before we even let out a voice. The way we think is lacking. We are dreamers, no; we are loosing our ability to dream. When these people around me close their eyes their minds do not light up into a carnival of ideas. When they sleep no longer do paths appear to wisp them away on journeys of things to come. They must remember or our generation is lost forever. We are not children, yet we are not adults; we are not one of the two.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Changing Thoughts
The wind; today it was softer then normal. It did not cut my face open, it left me intact. My walk to and from class was enjoyable. I walk, I notice, I see, I actually feel the warmth from the sun. My mind is slowly healing, my heart is stitching itself back together. It is amazing that months can disperse and I have nothing to show for it. My pain hurts me as though the world can see the scars that have been made on me. But it is not so, these invisible tortures have lingered for much too long. Instead of being what most would expect of me, I am doing the opposite. Most feel that since I was the one that acted as an ass that I should continue reading the script for the part. I have thought this as well. I have a hard time bringing myself to understand how I threw away something so precious to me, something so amazing that it made me lift with happiness the way the bright fall leaves are lifted by the soft autumn winds that I feel today. Instead of this, I am normally left feeling the cold cuts that have been delivered to my skin from a vicious torrent like that of a devastating wall of frigged whiteness.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Forward
Even as the wind picks up and changes the direction of the snow to whip across my face, I still walk forward. The pain is gone but I feel that something is missing. I feel that I must walk on. I question how I can know this, how I can have a feeling that controls my steps in such aways as this. If only I had the nerve to try and fight the feeling. Yet I still walk on, knowing that I am helpless and that feelings control my every move.
My heart beats faster, I breath slower. It is blistering cold and the wind is slashing the snow through my skin. Yet I am forced to keep walking forward. Before I can grab at my jacket, it is thrown to the ground. Each step seems to strain my clothes, and pulls at my skin. All that my body wants is to stop the terror, but in life only our mind has control. My clothes seem to be tearing away, it is as if the snow and wind are cutting me bare. I still walk forward. My heart hurts, the beating cracks my ribs. My breathing is slowly fading more and more.
My heart beats faster, I breath slower. It is blistering cold and the wind is slashing the snow through my skin. Yet I am forced to keep walking forward. Before I can grab at my jacket, it is thrown to the ground. Each step seems to strain my clothes, and pulls at my skin. All that my body wants is to stop the terror, but in life only our mind has control. My clothes seem to be tearing away, it is as if the snow and wind are cutting me bare. I still walk forward. My heart hurts, the beating cracks my ribs. My breathing is slowly fading more and more.
Regret
At a moments notice I can open my mouth and unleash the most regrettable words. One simple question well worded through drunken ears creates a sentence that destroys all chance. Where there was once a hope of love and laughter now only bares a smile and a friendship. I have been stripped of all characteristics that created myself. Spiraled together again in no order, only the worst traits are left to combine themselves into what is now only stupidity. I have been able to restrict myself from any good that has entered my life. I move forward but only to be followed by steps that recede.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Enjoyment
Each day people die. Each day people are born. Each moment could be our last. Each moment could be our first. Just because we are alive does not mean that we are living. This is what haunts me. What if today is my day? What if we are here and have no say in when we leave this place? I have so many goals in life, and these goals cannot even start to be completed until I am finished my education.
I often lie awake at night with my eyes closed trying to pass into my unconscious. In this blackness the world is painted on the canvas which is my mind. I am unable to forget my worries, they are brought to life. Colour is given to them, each thought and want is played out before me. My eyes become a theatre for the occupants of my head. Then eventually the film becomes warm as the reel ignites, a burst of white then the theatre goes black; the occupants flee.
As I wake the camera starts recording once again. I feel a lack of motivation for the majority of my days. This I do not understand, I try to think back to when I was younger, to when my friends and I would spend our time during recess kicking a soccer ball against the public school walls. I never tried hard in school. I enjoyed the social part of the institution, not the educational part of the brick prison.
Today could be my last. Today could be my first.
I often lie awake at night with my eyes closed trying to pass into my unconscious. In this blackness the world is painted on the canvas which is my mind. I am unable to forget my worries, they are brought to life. Colour is given to them, each thought and want is played out before me. My eyes become a theatre for the occupants of my head. Then eventually the film becomes warm as the reel ignites, a burst of white then the theatre goes black; the occupants flee.
As I wake the camera starts recording once again. I feel a lack of motivation for the majority of my days. This I do not understand, I try to think back to when I was younger, to when my friends and I would spend our time during recess kicking a soccer ball against the public school walls. I never tried hard in school. I enjoyed the social part of the institution, not the educational part of the brick prison.
Today could be my last. Today could be my first.
Autumn
Holding the universe in your hand.
Each planet is nestled among the lines which create the map.
Finger tips are home to the stars that endlessly burn.
Spin the rocks in a sequence which rewinds.
Until the leaves lift from the ground.
Return to the branches which they once where part of.
The colours of brown, orange, and purple slowly fade.
Green seeps back into the once lifeless shape.
Rewind until the depth of six feet does not house
The living that lack breath.
Stars will glow different colours now.
Passion
This is one life that wont be stepped on. Her blood shall not flow to feed the flowers of death. This Devil with a hallow will not freeze her warmth.
Two days of constant rain. This had to be a sign, a bad one at that. Driving further and further, the sky is only getting darker the closer I get to the war zone.
It was still dark when I left the house, not sure if that was because of the rain or if the sun has yet to come up.
I am a vigilante, one of the few good guys. Not like the cops, I'm not corrupt. All the cops in this town are into some kind of garbage or another. That's why I've been driving all day, or night, still can't tell. The only thing that I've got that can try and help me grasp the time of day is my watch, its 8...hmm... that doesn't' help. It could be day or night, doesn't really matter i tell myself.
I left her sleeping. I do not feel the need to bring her eyes to my vision of the world. I just left a note to remind her of my love.
I drive. I know where to go. It is easy really; I just follow the trail of blood that backs up the rain gutters. The dead bodies that line the sidewalks. these bodies have been dropped there by one thing. The first that drops its heavy mass hard and fast. I drive this Hell and my purpose is clear. I must hang the hallow and plant the horns back into the earth.
Not many see this pathway that I drive down. Not many see the love I have seen. Not many have a reason to see the truth. Many are happy to see the distortion which they live, and soon may die.
...
I stop driving here. I know I must walk the rest of the way. I must not be scared and I need more cold steel. These are my only weapons that I have. Being quiet will do nothing. This creature with wings and red skin can feel me coming. It can hear me breath. I shall not be burnt from the cold it possesses.
XIII, people say this brings bad luck. I'm here to prove their small minds wrong.
I arrive to a large field with grass so cold that flames leap from the tips. Thunder rips through the sky, blackness falls. The rain turns to flakes of snow which bounce from my skin. I see red but my eyes are not drowned in blood.
"I will rip the breath from your lungs just as you have done to millions across this world." My voice is ruff, I scrape these words from my throat.
"You will do no such thing! The darkness that surrounds you will consume you. The sky shall drop into your soul and you shall feel the heat of Ice like all the others."
I pull out my lovely steel; cold and smooth.
I gaze at the steel, then raise my eyes and carve from my throat only a few words, "kiss this steel and be as passionate as a man kisses his wife on his death bed."
Both chambers are unloaded and the blizzards of death consume all vision. Blackness that flows red. the cold steel smokes, empty cases melt through the flickering cold blades of grass. I walk forward to see the frost bitten mound of flames that is the walking God of life and death. The one who holds the bible in one hand and a spear in the other.
I came to do what I was able to do. The cold dark road starts to turn warm for most.
...
I make it to her bed once again. I write her a note to show her how much I love he even though I told her this before we slip away into the land of dreams. I leave this on my pillow.
...
I am in the quietest place ever imagined. I will not see or be seen again. To bring death to such a being was to bring my own death.
I chose this to save her. I will not go to light or fire, there is no such thing. I shall be cold for eternity and she shall live for a life.
You cannot escape the Black snow flakes that pears the heart and rip the mind bare...almost bare...I still think of her.
Two days of constant rain. This had to be a sign, a bad one at that. Driving further and further, the sky is only getting darker the closer I get to the war zone.
It was still dark when I left the house, not sure if that was because of the rain or if the sun has yet to come up.
I am a vigilante, one of the few good guys. Not like the cops, I'm not corrupt. All the cops in this town are into some kind of garbage or another. That's why I've been driving all day, or night, still can't tell. The only thing that I've got that can try and help me grasp the time of day is my watch, its 8...hmm... that doesn't' help. It could be day or night, doesn't really matter i tell myself.
I left her sleeping. I do not feel the need to bring her eyes to my vision of the world. I just left a note to remind her of my love.
I drive. I know where to go. It is easy really; I just follow the trail of blood that backs up the rain gutters. The dead bodies that line the sidewalks. these bodies have been dropped there by one thing. The first that drops its heavy mass hard and fast. I drive this Hell and my purpose is clear. I must hang the hallow and plant the horns back into the earth.
Not many see this pathway that I drive down. Not many see the love I have seen. Not many have a reason to see the truth. Many are happy to see the distortion which they live, and soon may die.
...
I stop driving here. I know I must walk the rest of the way. I must not be scared and I need more cold steel. These are my only weapons that I have. Being quiet will do nothing. This creature with wings and red skin can feel me coming. It can hear me breath. I shall not be burnt from the cold it possesses.
XIII, people say this brings bad luck. I'm here to prove their small minds wrong.
I arrive to a large field with grass so cold that flames leap from the tips. Thunder rips through the sky, blackness falls. The rain turns to flakes of snow which bounce from my skin. I see red but my eyes are not drowned in blood.
"I will rip the breath from your lungs just as you have done to millions across this world." My voice is ruff, I scrape these words from my throat.
"You will do no such thing! The darkness that surrounds you will consume you. The sky shall drop into your soul and you shall feel the heat of Ice like all the others."
I pull out my lovely steel; cold and smooth.
I gaze at the steel, then raise my eyes and carve from my throat only a few words, "kiss this steel and be as passionate as a man kisses his wife on his death bed."
Both chambers are unloaded and the blizzards of death consume all vision. Blackness that flows red. the cold steel smokes, empty cases melt through the flickering cold blades of grass. I walk forward to see the frost bitten mound of flames that is the walking God of life and death. The one who holds the bible in one hand and a spear in the other.
I came to do what I was able to do. The cold dark road starts to turn warm for most.
...
I make it to her bed once again. I write her a note to show her how much I love he even though I told her this before we slip away into the land of dreams. I leave this on my pillow.
...
I am in the quietest place ever imagined. I will not see or be seen again. To bring death to such a being was to bring my own death.
I chose this to save her. I will not go to light or fire, there is no such thing. I shall be cold for eternity and she shall live for a life.
You cannot escape the Black snow flakes that pears the heart and rip the mind bare...almost bare...I still think of her.
Confusion
I saw this place, this place of death.
It was not as scary as I had once envisioned it.
It was in a beautiful place.
A place where I was at peace.
A place, a moment, that I wanted to last forever.
I did not realise where I was until after I was there,
The realisation of appearing in such a place where others
Like me had been, and not seen their fate.
Their fate was a short one.
Life ends quickly for those who live it slowly.
It was as if I foreshadowed my own fate.
As if I was telling myself what was to happen of me.
But how is that possible I ask myself.
For I did not know I was in the mouth of hell
Until I had returned from it.
But to foreshadow something the person
That has the shadow placed upon them does not realise
The pre-meditation involved.
I call this place of death that I was at
Hell due to the beliefs of the religious population.
The bible shows that the Devil was manipulative.
He appeared as a snake in a place of beauty
Where others have disappeared from previously.
You shall die when least expecting it.
In a state of peace is where you shall suffer most.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
Photograph
I have these photographs scattered on my lap. Each one I pick up and hold in my hands. I try to feel the warmth that was had within each caption. I can not blink as I go through them, I fear that in that spilt second for which my eyes are closed, the photograph might be carried off. I treasure these photographs and all the memories stored with in them. Gaze upon these to unlock happiness from the past, and that which is still to come.
Accused
Let go of these hands that cast hatred into my life.
I feel no remorse for evading a touch that to me would bring pain and suffering to those around me.
How is it that I am frowned upon by those around me for only doing what it is that I feel should be done.
Right and wrong have no voice, they are merely angles on my shoulder that have had their lips sewn shut with a poisoned needle, the thread is rusted wire that will never loosen.
Bring to me my vindication.
Let that which you do not know at peace.
Why should a person that has done nothing wrong be punished for that which they are blamed for by those that had not one eye open to atrocity?
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